


You Wear Your Ruins Well

by LizzieHarker



Series: The Arrowsverse [16]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Bearded Steve Rogers, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Tell Me Nothing But Lies/Chewing on Glass, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve Rogers Recovering, Steve deals with depression and anxiety, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-17 20:26:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13084716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieHarker/pseuds/LizzieHarker
Summary: Steve found himself in Bucky’s arms, tucked beneath his chin. Hot tears stained his face and Bucky wiped at them with his thumb, pressing his lips to Steve’s head. “C’mon, Stevie. Talk to me. Please.”The tension in his chest broke, unleashing the ocean he’d kept contained since the ice melted from his skin. “How do you do this?” Steve sobbed, burying his face against Bucky’s chest, hand twisting the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t understand. How do you do this?” The misery came, torrent and rip current, unstoppable.Bucky’s arms tightened and Steve sagged, the tears flowing endlessly now that he’d started. Buck drew circles up and down Steve’s back, whispering reassurance, taking Steve’s weight and holding on. By the time he’d finished, cried himself out entirely, Steve’s head throbbed, his eyes achy and his nose stuffed up. Bucky’s shirt had soaked through and Steve lay uncomfortably against it. The other man didn’t move, didn’t let go, didn’t push him away. Drawing a shaky breath, Steve looked up at Bucky, who looked back down at him. “I think I’m in trouble, Buck.”





	You Wear Your Ruins Well

Steve unraveled himself from his blanket cocoon on the sofa to find sunlight streaming in through the windows. He’d gotten up that morning with every intention to go on his usual pre-dawn run (the same intention he’d had for the last two weeks) but when he sat down to put on his shoes, he fell over, curled up, and buried himself in the blankets, easily sleeping past noon. Yesterday, it’d been half past five when he’d woken to a deeply concerned Bucky stroking his hair. Maybe this time there’d still be some day to salvage. 

Sitting up, Steve noticed the studio door stood open. Framed in the doorway, dressed in yoga pants and a tank top, Bucky stretched. Bucky’s more-or-less-daily routine typically started at nine, so Steve figured he hadn’t slept in too late after all. Usually music accompanied his practice, but he’d taken to leaving it off, not wanting to disturb Steve. Buck had started yoga after a couple weeks in therapy, trying the combination of meditation and exercise to rework his muscle memory and channel his energy into something constructive. It made Steve miss running, though if he were honest, he hadn’t gotten much out of it lately. 

Dragging the blankets along, Steve climbed off the couch and slipped past Bucky and his mat to settle in the corner. He fluffed his nest, trying to keep quiet while Bucky stretched. Steve still felt that warm flutter behind his ribs whenever Bucky was near, especially when he had an unbridled view of his beauty. He’d always found Bucky gorgeous, and as Steve studied the way Bucky’s muscle shifted beneath his skin, he mourned the will to draw he’d apparently lost on one of his seldom-taken runs. 

Steve drifted, coming to when he realized Bucky had stopped. He gathered the blankets, making to get up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to distract you.”

Bucky set a hand on Steve’s shoulder, his touch light. “Didn’t. You wanna stay? I like the company.”

Nodding, Steve relaxed, as much as he ever did these days. Being near Bucky helped, but as much as he might like it, Steve knew he couldn’t spend every moment glued to Bucky’s side. He wanted to feel better, but didn’t know how. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt well. Instead, he focused on Bucky, the way he moved, the way he breathed.

“Does it help?” Steve asked, unable to stop the question before it interrupted.

Bucky continued moving, shifting his stance, arms parallel to the mat. “For some things. It reminds me how to breathe, helps ground me when I’m anxious, energizes me when I’m too tired to get outta bed.” Bending his knee, Bucky leaned forward, rotating his hips, and brought his hands to his heart. “It helps between sessions with Doc.” He tucked his knee into his chest, steepled his fingers against the floor, and kicked straight up into a split. Buck held the pose for a few breaths before moving back through the sequence and out. “You can join me if you wanna try. I’ll talk you through it.”

Steve shook his head, hunching further into his blanket. He itched in a way he couldn’t describe; concentrating on breathing and slow poses—holding poses—would frustrate, not comfort him. Steve didn’t possess Bucky’s flexibility. Never had. “I like watching you,” Steve said honestly.

Bucky smiled at him and worked through the opposite side. Part of Steve longed to flop over, curl up, and go back to sleep, but instead, he forced himself to track Bucky’s movements, to meter his breathing to match. But the more he watched, the less well he felt, a unidentified dread scratching along his bones. Steve moved, suddenly restless. At least the blanket hid his trembling.

And then Bucky knelt in front of him again, concern and pain in his eyes. A low whine escaped Steve’s throat and he regretted getting out of bed, getting off the couch, coming to sit with Bucky because he’d ruined everything, like always. He’d always been useless and in the way, and now Bucky had stopped doing what he needed to focus on Steve. Useless and selfish, that’s what he was. Buck was a saint for wanting anything to do with him and-

“Oh, honey, no. I don’t think that at all,” Bucky murmured into Steve’s hair. Steve found himself in Bucky’s arms, tucked beneath his chin. Hot tears stained his face and Bucky wiped at them with his thumb, pressing his lips to Steve’s head. “C’mon, Stevie. Talk to me. Please.”

The tension in his chest broke, unleashing the ocean he’d kept contained since the ice melted from his skin. “How do you do this?” Steve sobbed, burying his face against Bucky’s chest, hand twisting the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t understand. How do you do this?” The misery came, torrent and rip current, unstoppable.

“With help,” Bucky answered gently. “With Doc. The yoga is great, but it’s a tool, Stevie, not a cure. The cure is talking to someone who can help you deal with the things that hurt, the things that don’t go away.”

Bucky’s arms tightened and Steve sagged, the tears flowing endlessly now that he’d started. Buck drew circles up and down Steve’s back, whispering reassurance, taking Steve’s weight and holding on. By the time he’d finished, cried himself out entirely, Steve’s head throbbed, his eyes achy and his nose stuffed up. Bucky’s shirt had soaked through and Steve lay uncomfortably against it. The other man didn’t move, didn’t let go, didn’t push him away. Drawing a shaky breath, Steve looked up at Bucky, who looked back down at him. “I think I’m in trouble, Buck.”

Being so close, Steve felt Bucky’s relieved exhale as if it’d been his own. A lightness pushed against the weight he felt, a blessing from his confession. “Then we’ll get you help. We’ll find someone for you to talk to, someone you can trust. We’ll get you better, honey.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. If you want, I’ll call Doc right now. You can come with me tomorrow and we’ll ask her for recommendations. We’ll see if she and Sam can steer us in the right direction.”

Steve whimpered, curling back into Bucky’s arms. “I don’t wanna feel like this anymore.”

“I know. You’re worn out. You’ve been strong for years, Steve, longer than you should have had to, and most of that alone, but now it’s time to let someone help you, take care of you. And I’ll be right here. I’ll do everything I can to help you get better.”

Steve didn’t deserve such kindness. He’d never deserved Bucky, not then, not now, but he wasn’t going to argue. He didn’t have it in him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he said, and Steve knew it for truth, felt it as an undeniable force in his bones. “Don’t worry, Stevie. It won’t be this way forever.”

Steve, too weak to move, took the comfort Bucky offered without another word. Another series of choking sobs wracked through him, and Bucky cradled Steve in his lap, bringing the blankets up to keep him warm. That space behind Steve’s ribs filled with unbridled love so sweet it stung. He’d been in love with Bucky Barnes for over a century and just when Steve believed he couldn’t love him more, that he’d already given everything—every cell, ever nerve, every heartbeat—he found another source of passion and gratitude, of hope and adoration, and devoted every ounce to that man, the one he thought he’d lost forever but found in a century he’d never imagined he’d see. 

And when Bucky promised Steve could be well again, Steve believed him.

 

*

 

He half-listened to Bucky’s initial phone call, to his, “yeah, I’m fine. We’re still on for tomorrow, but I gotta question. I know it’s unorthodox, but,” and how Bucky’s request for Steve to sit in on his therapy session had been met with welcome and kindness. Sitting in the waiting room now, Steve felt every moment of lost sleep he knew etched itself on his face. He’d gotten out of bed around five that morning, having given up on sleep, but lacking any better prospects on the couch, returned to bed to cuddle with Bucky and watch the clock as it ticked its way to eight. Therapy was scheduled for ten.

At least Bucky hadn’t been forced to drag him out of the blankets. Steve got up, showered, brushed his teeth, all of his own free will. When he’d turned down breakfast, Bucky frowned, but Steve picked at Bucky’s eggs and toast long enough to appease him; Bucky had made extra for that reason. He bundled Steve up against the cold of Brooklyn winter and held his hand as they made their way into the city. Bucky held his hand now as they waited, and when they were called, and when they’d taken a seat on the pastel couch in the office.

Steve didn’t know what he’d expected. He’d been in that office a handful of times, and with the exception of a vase in the corner and the artwork, nothing had changed. Still, Steve couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d never set foot in that space before. He scooted closer to Bucky, overwhelmingly uneasy. His head swam like he was seasick, chest tight. Oh god, if the trembling started again . . .

Bucky wrapped his arm around Steve’s shoulders. “Don’t be nervous, punk. She’s real nice. You know her.”

“Jerk,” Steve grumbled, tucking his head into Bucky’s neck as the door opened.

“Hey, Doc,” Bucky said. “Thanks for lettin’ Stevie come, too.”

“Of course. I’m sorry we’re not seeing each other again under happier circumstances, Captain Rogers.”

Steve looked at her long enough to nod. “Please, call me Steve.”

The therapist took her seat across from the couch. Nerves sent Steve reeling. What the hell was he supposed to do? He hadn’t prepared for questions, wasn’t ready to talk. His hands shook. Goddamn it. For a moment, Steve missed the anger. He’d carried it most of his life, a warm comfort, a familiar feeling. Buck used to tease he’d been born angry, pissed at his failing body, and that rage and his mile-wide stubborn streak kept him alive despite everything. Maybe Buck was right; the despair felt like dying.

And, having died once already, he’d know.

Bucky leaned in, resting his head atop Steve’s. Bucky always sensed Steve’s thoughts, predicted where his mind would go before Steve went there himself. Steve softened into that touch. It eased his frayed nerves. 

Steve almost failed to hear him when Bucky spoke. “Knowing how long it took me to find someone I could talk to, I was hopin’ you could point us in the right direction. We gotta friend, works for the VA in D.C., and he’s looking out for us, too. I know you can’t be Stevie’s doctor, but we need someone like you for him. The one thing that matters to me above all is that whoever treats my fella knows they’re treating Steve, not Captain America.”

Doc smiled, and Steve felt a little better. Asking for help had never been his strength, but he never stopped being grateful for support freely given. “I believe I have a few colleagues who may be a good fit.”

 

*

 

It took three tries before Steve settled on a doctor he liked. Bucky accompanied him to every interview, sitting quiet but attentive at Steve’s side, offering advice or thoughts only after they’d left. In the end, Steve chose the man who’d greeted him as Mr. Rogers, who’d made no reference to Captain America or superheroes whatsoever. Bucky’s smile told him Steve made the right decision.

“There are people out there who will see you for who you are,” Bucky said, “not what you’ve done. S’why I chose Doc. She didn’t bat an eye, knowing what I’d done. Her job wasn’t diagnosing the Soldier, it was helping me.”

Steve kept Bucky’s words in his head as they sat in a different waiting room before Steve’s first session. He tried to focus on his breathing, ignoring the nervousness fluttering in his stomach. Bucky turned through his book, pausing every now and again to rub Steve’s back. Mentally, he told himself he felt fine, but Bucky’s insistence that Steve didn’t have to be fine derailed that train of thought. 

Bucky was right, of course. Steve didn’t have to be okay. Asking for help wasn’t a weakness. Accepting help made him stronger. Suffering alone only made the problem worse, and keeping that pain inside let it rot. He knocked into Bucky’s shoulder, drawing a smile from his partner. Steve deserved to be cared for, deserved love, and kindness, and understanding. He was allowed to let that anger go, to forgive himself, to heal.

The doctor called for Steve, and Bucky tilted his head for a kiss. “I’ll be here when you finish, honey,” he said.

Everything Steve knew about therapy came from Bucky, or from watching Bucky after a session. Memories of Army medical exams and enlistment papers flickered by, five 4F stamps and dismissals, Steve always found wanting despite his willingness. He always wanted to be useful, to prove his life meant something. To prove he mattered.

Staying still remained the one thing Steve couldn’t do, but the doctor let him walk around the office, examining things as he answered questions, listening more often than he spoke, mulling over the doctor’s words. It wasn’t as difficult as Steve imagined, but by the end, exhaustion weighed on him. A good exhaustion, one he recognized from hard work rather than emptiness.

He found Bucky in the waiting room, as promised, and held his hand as they left the offices and headed for home. Steve glanced up, realizing they’d made a detour, and spied a familiar red-doored café across the street. Noticing he’d noticed, Bucky squeezed his hand. Warmth blossomed in Steve’s chest; he’d taken Bucky out for pancakes at the same place after one of his first therapy sessions. 

Steve warmed up the second he walked into the building, the inviting scent of baking bread and fresh coffee making his mouth water. They slid into their usual booth and Bucky hooked his foot around Steve’s ankle. Steve smiled at him as the waitress brought over menus; Bucky ordered them both hot chocolate and the minute it arrived, Steve wrapped his hands around his mug and breathed in the sweet steam, all chocolate and cream. And his first sip tasted better than anything he’d had in months, the flavor rich and strong, the heat spreading to the top of his head and the soles of his feet. Across from him, Bucky grinned back and Steve basked in the look of pride in his eyes. 

And, because he was Steve, and Steve was obviously smitten, the waitress pretended not to notice the way he blushed, even as Bucky ordered for them both, reaching across the table to cup his hands.

“How was it?” Bucky asked, once the waitress departed.

Steve set down his mug and turned his hands to hold Bucky’s. “Weird. Uncomfortable. A little painful.” Not that Bucky wouldn’t know; he’d been doing this for a year already, weeding through each horrifying action, the things he’d done and the things that had been done to him. What did Steve have to complain—

No. The first thing he’d been taught was mental illness differed for everyone. Comparing his trauma to Bucky’s hurt him worse. It was unproductive. He needed to stop, and to stop discounting—invalidating—his feelings and struggles. He shook his head, drew in a deep breath, and continued. “It was hard, but it was good. I think I’m feeling better.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve said. The knot of anxiety had loosened, but he knew the road ahead ran long. He had work to do, but he’d taken the most important step by beginning. And Bucky stood ready to walk beside him, offering support and love, as he always had—always would. Steve left his chair to tuck himself into Bucky’s side after the waitress brought their pancakes, stealing a kiss before digging in to their breakfast.

 

*

 

The bad days struck hard. Bucky warned him they’d come, and hell, Steve had witnessed them from the other side. If asked which version hurt worse, Steve wouldn’t be able to decide. He hated the twisted feeling of dread, seeing a bad spell a mile off and knowing it would take him, drag him under no matter how hard to fought it. With luck, he pushed it off for a few hours, maybe a day or so. Depression and anxiety came nonetheless. Sometimes, they snuck up on him like a sucker punch; Steve doubled over, winded, overwhelmed. He’d had a nervous breakdown over a slice of eggless sponge Bucky made, the cake a perfect reminder of time they’d lost. Bucky held him through it, whispering reassurances of the here and now.

A series of good days ended with Steve unable to get out of bed, unable to let go of Bucky at all, terrified that losing sight of Bucky meant losing him forever. Again.

“It come in waves, honey,” Bucky said, stroking Steve’s hair as Steve tried to quiet his sobs. His head hurt from all the crying. “Breathe. You know this will pass. It did before, it will again. The more you face what scares you, the easier it gets to recognize and let go.”

Steve rubbed his nose against Bucky’s chest. At a month into treatment, he hadn’t expected so many dark days. The good days filled him with light and hope, his desire to run crept back, and the world looked brighter, colors richer. He hated the dark, the cold, the ice. “I thought I was better.” He sniffled, choking back tears. “Why aren’t I better?”

“You _are_ better. These things take time, Stevie. You may have a boost healing physical wounds thanks to the serum, but it can’t cure everything. I know you’re doing the work, and I know how hard it is. Some days, it’s hard for me, too.”

“But it _hurts_ ,” Steve answered. “I hate this. I hate feeling weak and small. I hate breaking down over insignificant things. I hate not being able to brush my teeth or shower or put on pants because the effort is too much. It hurts and I hate that it hurts.”

Bucky wiped at the tears cooling on Steve’s face, then cuddled him closer. “You were never small and weak, Steve. Not on the inside. You’re mind is catching up with your body and it hurts for now, but you are getting better. You can see what’s happening, even if you can’t stop it yet. The bad days will come, but soon enough, the good days will outnumber them. I can’t promise you’ll never have another bad day, but I swear you’ll be able to take them in stride.”

“But why does it hurt, Buck?”

“Because you’re not done growing yet.”

 

*

 

Steve rested his head on the breakfast bar and stared at the side of his coffee mug like maybe it would pour coffee into his mouth if he willed it hard enough. Bucky leaned over the sink, tangling his fingers in Steve’s hair. He looked up, whimpering.

“Babydoll, how ‘bout we get outta the house for a bit today?” Bucky asked. “Go look at all the Christmas window displays, get some hot chocolate,” and Bucky smiled, a quirk at the corner of his mouth as he said, “find some mistletoe and a flimsy excuse to kiss disgustingly in public.”

The idea of going out crept beneath Steve’s skin, causing him to shiver. He knew he should get out of the house. A change of scenery would do him good, but . . . pants. Still, Steve loved Christmas. The lights, the colors, how the snow made everything clean, crisp, and sparkling. Well, for a minute, anyway. They lived in New York after all. And Steve loved the cold air, the way it filled his lungs without a coughing fit, how he didn’t worry now about catching a cold, or the flu, or pneumonia. Winter couldn’t hurt him, freeing Steve to enjoy it all he wanted.

Sitting up, he drained the rest of his coffee, forsaking Bucky’s hand on his head to return his smile. “Okay, yeah. Let’s go out.” He stood, setting his empty mug in the sink. Leave the apartment. Have a day out with his best guy. He paused, chewing at his lower lip before looking at Buck sideways. “Can we get a tree? And decorations?”

“Absolutely,” Buck answered, rounding the bar into the dining room. “We’ll have a proper Christmas, just the two of us. All the lights you want.” He cupped Steve’s face, pressing a kiss to his lips. Steve fought the urge to melt at Bucky’s feet. “Let’s get you dressed and go be ridiculous.”

Steve grinned as Bucky tugged him toward their bedroom. By the time Buck had him wrapped in sweater, scarf, coat, gloves, and shoved out the door, Steve’s lips and cheeks were already reddened and the cold certainly wasn’t to blame. As long as his fingers were laced through Bucky’s, leaving the apartment didn’t feel so hard. They were already in Manhattan when the anxiety crept up on him. Crowds. Steve suddenly hated them, the way people stared, gossiped, stopped in the streets and tilted their heads, and—

“What is it, honey?” Bucky asked, still pulling Steve through the crowd, and Steve felt Bucky’s gravity pulling him closer, promising safety.

Steve hunched into his scarf. “People are looking at us.”

“Yeah, cause we’re two handsome guys holding hands and they’re jealous,” Bucky answered, jostling his shoulder.

“I should have brought the ball cap. And the aviators.”

“No, you should not have. Stevie, ain’t no one looking at you. I promise. And if they are? If someone recognizes you? Who cares? What’s it matter as long as we’re out having a great time?” Bucky steered him to the side beneath a row of scaffolding, somewhat out of the way of foot traffic. “I know you’re uncomfortable, honey. Anxiety’s a real bitch. I’m proud of you for coming out here because I know it isn’t easy. C’mon. Let’s go look at the windows. You can daydream about how to make our apartment a winter wonderland.”

Steve rested his head on Bucky’s shoulder for a moment. Leaving the apartment _wasn’t_ easy. He remembered when it had been, when walking out the door took no thought, no effort. He remembered guiding Bucky the same way Bucky now guided him. Bucky had been okay. 

He’d be okay, too.

“I want lights, and tinsel, and we should get some ornaments. And I want a star for the top of the tree,” Steve said, voice a little scratchy.

“I’ll buy you all the stars in the sky if that’s what you want, Stevie.”

Steve stepped back into the crowd, walking at Bucky’s side. “Don’t want all of ‘em. Just one. I’ll know the right one when I see it.”

\--

The window displays left Steve breathless. Catching sight of the Saks Fifth Avenue storefront, Steve dragged Bucky across the street. He smiled so hard his face ached as he tried to look everywhere at once. The _Snow White_ theme mesmerized him, all the tiny details and artistry pulling at nostalgia, edging it out with modern mechanics bringing the scenery to life. Steve practically had his face pressed to the glass. 

“Have you ever seen anything more beautiful, Buck?” Steve asked.

Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve’s chest, resting his chin on Steve’s shoulder. “Nope. Can’t think of a thing.”

If Steve had caught Bucky’s reflection in the glass, he’d have seen Bucky’s gaze firmly fixed on Steve’s grin.

The other displays were equally impressive, a conglomeration of candy and colors, a technicolor winter wonderland beside some high fashion designer gown encased along with crystal-covered skeletons. Steve didn’t get that one, but he could appreciate the effort. Everything shone beautifully, and Steve felt his anxiety ease. Bad days didn’t have to stay bad. He reached up to grip Bucky’s arms, tilting his head back to look at his lover. 

“I want a white tree. I want it dripping tinsel and covered in baubles and lights.”

Bucky chuckled, his breath warm against Steve’s skin. He shivered with delight. “Whatever you want, babydoll.”

\--

Bucky put on milk for hot chocolate as Steve unpacked the bags and boxes of Christmas decor. They set up the tree first, moving the couch over to create space. Steve loved it already: no watering, no pine needles, no sap everywhere. Perfect. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a Christmas tree, or decorated, or even really thought about it. Much as he loved it, without Buck, it just hadn’t been worth the effort. Part of this year’s deal was no presents, and Steve felt another knot of tension ease in his chest. He loved giving gifts, but the pressure felt like too much. He didn’t have it in him. So instead, Steve poured his energy into decorating.

Soon silvery tinsel and colorful ornaments covered the tree, making it look like a Jackson Pollock. He’d loved the long, icicle-shaped ones the moment he saw them, snapping up every shade of blue he found. Between the warm, soft string lights they’d bought, the tree glowed with a beautiful mixture of blues, purples and grays. Steve stepped back to admire his work, searching for places that need more attention or rearranging. Bucky snuck up beside him, planting a kiss on Steve’s cheek.

“Looks good, babydoll.”

Steve narrowed his eyes, his lips twisting. “It’s missing something.”

Bucky shifted, bringing his left arm around, a box balanced in his palm.

“We’re not supposed to be doing presents,” Steve chided.

“S’not a present. You weren’t paying attention when I bought it.”

Glancing at him in suspicion, Steve took the box and opened it. A metal star rested on white tissue paper. Steve’s heart skipped. “Oh, Buck, it’s perfect,” he said, tracing the delicate Art Deco patterns. “You wanna do the honors?”

“It’s your tree. Finish your masterpiece.”

Steve kissed him, stealing a bit of warmth in the taste of Bucky’s lips, before moving back to his tree. He pressed up on his toes and placed the star at the top, his crowning achievement. “How’s it look now?”

“Amazing, baby,” Bucky answered, holding a sprig of fake mistletoe over his head, that charming smirk on his face.

Steve snatched it away and tossed it across the room, taking Bucky’s face in both hands. “Like we need the excuse.”

 

*

 

Christmas morning arrived with the smell of French toast and coffee, delivered to Steve in bed, followed by an incredibly indulgent round of kissing, amazing sex, a long luxurious bath with his best guy, and a whole day spent wrapped up in each other. 

\--

Steve received a gift the day after, when Bucky returned from their PO box. Bucky pinned another postcard to the fridge, this one a collection of buildings with gothic spires and Moorish domes, before holding out a second postcard to Steve. “This one’s for you.”

Bucky handed it to him face down, and Steve saw his own name scribbled across it in Clint’s hand along with “Guggenheim Collection” printed across the bottom. The center text read “ _Spazio Opposto-IV, 2006._ ” He turned it over to reveal the painting on the other side: an abstract piece composed in black, gray, and streaks of green and yellow on white. Steve’s jaw dropped. He knew the postcard for what it was: a peace offering, a silent forgiveness, a gift. 

He took another magnet and stuck it to the fridge, right in center.

 

*

 

Steve started with sessions multiple times a week.

They talk about the war. They talk about Steve’s failing health, his determination to be seen as any other man, to be capable. They talk about the cure. The doctor never mentioned Erskine, the SSR, supersoliders, or Vita-rays. Steve talks about feeling better, stronger, healthier; about a life without physical pain, about the glory and wonder of taking a full, deep breath for the first time. They talk about the reinforced imagine of Steve not being enough, of proving himself, and still not being enough.

Afterward, Steve went home and sat beside the man who’d always known, who’d always seen Steve for who he was, inside and out. Bucky never believed Steve to be less than enough. To him, Steve had always been so much more.

They talk about his need to fight, and more than that, the anger he carries. Part of it, Steve knows, steams from that desire to prove himself, to rail against his failing body, against the people who saw him as lesser, against the idea that Steve’s life—expected to be too short—meant nothing. They talk about the now, how Steve had taken his anger for comfort, carried it through to stave off the pain of waking so far from home.

They talk about old Brooklyn as a place instead of a time, and that helps Steve frame his perspective. 

Afterward, Steve bought a fresh journal and wrote down everything that gave his life meaning. Bucky, singing along to Post-Modern Jukebox from the kitchen, made the top of the list.

They talk about Peggy. Steve knew it was coming, but it still twisted something inside his chest. He remembers her, every detail from the way she smiled to the way she carried herself to the way she looked at him and saw. He regretted leaving her. He had loved her, even if his love for someone else drove him to suicide. Peggy had been special, and Steve would never not be thankful for the months he spent with her after, whether she remembered him or not. 

Afterward, Steve went home and cried. He mourned again, properly, and Bucky stayed at his side, quietly mourning, too. This time he knew the hurt for what it was, and as he leaned into his partner, Steve took a deep breath, embraced the growing pains, and let go. Peggy had lived her life, and she’d been so proud of him, knew he’d finally get the chance to live his. He knew she’d been proud of him now, too.

They talk about coming out of the ice. Steve described how much it hurt, physically, how it burned and stung, the pins and needles in his limbs practically drawing blood. They talk, in abstract terms, of who the world wanted Steve to be, and Steve’s idea of himself. If Steve were honest, and really, this was the time, he didn’t know. The world expected Captain America, and he played his part well. Deep down, Steve found himself stuck: between joining the army and waking up decades later, Steve hadn’t put much thought into what he wanted. He never thought he’d have the chance to do anything. 

Afterward, Steve headed to the Museum of Modern Art. He gets lost in the building and doesn’t mind a bit, refilling his soul with color and light. Bucky trailed along behind him. Turns out he really likes Cindy Sherman. Untitled #58 is his favorite.

They talk about his social life—or lack thereof. Steve mentioned his friends, mentioned dinners and birthdays but how Steve preferred to stay home, and the conversation circled back to worthiness. His social anxiety rooted in fear of rejection, of not being enough. The doctor expanded the idea of worth to include love. Despite knowing his friends cared for him, Steve confessed he never felt like he fit in, and that circled back to who Steve wanted to be. He still didn’t know, but the answer felt closer. Before, he didn’t have the chance, but now he did. Steve wanted to be an artist. Now he wanted to be comfortable in his skin.

Afterward, they went shopping. It’s cold and Bucky thought some retail therapy might do Steve some good. He ends up with six new sweaters, a pair of nice leather boots, and two pairs of jeans that made his ass look fantastic. He bagged up and donated the clothes SHIELD had given him, the ones that hung too large, the ones he didn’t like, and replaced them with clothes he enjoyed, that fit him well, that let him see himself instead of the scrawny punk he used to be.

“Well,” Bucky scoffed, “ain’t scrawny anymore, but your stubborn ass can’t outgrow being a punk.”

Of course, the doctor noticed how everything Steve did mentioned Bucky, and the way Steve carefully avoided mentioning him, outside of the here and now, during their sessions. Their next session was therefore devoted entirely to Bucky. Whatever pain he’d felt for Peggy doubled the moment his doctor asked about Bucky. Steve sat on the couch and looked anywhere but at him. Steve had known Bucky all his life. Bucky had been his first real friend, his first love, his first everything. Each word Steve spoke felt like he dragged it from his chest, sharp and scraping inside. He mentioned the draft, how Bucky lied about it, how Steve’s determination to join the Army doubled so he could be at Bucky’s side. The doctor didn’t say a word about Steve’s feelings for the other man, and Steve was quietly grateful that at least his love, here, remained free of judgement, though he steeled himself for what happened next.

They talk about the fall.

Steve hunched in on himself, arms wrapped around his stomach. He’d fought so hard to get Bucky back, to keep him safe, and he’d lead him into danger. Bucky died for him. Worse: Bucky _suffered_ because of him. 

The doctor asked how Steve tortured him.

Steve looked up.

The doctor repeated the question, and Steve stared. He hadn’t hurt Bucky. HYDRA had. Steve had assumed Bucky died, and having destroyed the enemy, followed him into the dark. When he’d woken up, the guilt sank its teeth in and refused to let go.

It took more than one session to unpack Steve’s guilt, his misplaced anger, his self-hatred. Peggy had been right; Buck had chosen, of his own free will, to follow Steve. He’d chosen to take the train. He’d chosen to protect the man he loved. 

Steve had chosen not to mourn by ending his life. He’d still felt the pain of Bucky’s loss after he’d defrosted, magnified by time. Finding Bucky alive had been a miracle Steve seized onto with everything, body and soul, a cry for redemption for how he felt he’d failed the love of his life. But Bucky’s pain wasn’t Steve’s fault. The fight on the helicarrier, letting Bucky nearly kill him, that had been Steve trying to rebalance the scales, taking the punishment he thought he deserved. 

And Bucky had saved him instead. Again. 

Bucky hadn’t died. Bucky had chosen Steve, again; chosen to build a life together, one free and open, where they didn’t have to hide who they were or how they loved.

Afterward, Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky. A million words flittered through his head, a thousand apologies, a thousand declarations of love. Instead, he buried his nose in Bucky’s hair and whispered, “Thank you.”

Bucky built them a blanket fort in the living room and they spent the entire night wrapped up in one another, trading sweet kisses and soft touches, and Steve felt the last of the ice finally start to melt from his veins.

Steve—ashamed, nervous, scared—talked about Clint. Not in detail, not naming names. Doesn’t mention Hydra or the fight below the streets. Confesses to what tipped the scales and sent him down the rushing path to cracking apart. Steve had gone from careful wording and control to powerlessness and terror, spitting venom, claws out to rend and tear in the name of protecting the man he loved. He’d been afraid to show weakness, afraid to let another enemy slip beneath the wire. 

He believed, after everything, that he still wasn’t enough.

So he’d wrapped all that warm, comforting anger around his heart and let loose.

He’d broken a friendship, still in the making. He’d hurt Bucky by lying. He’d hurt Clint by forcing him to account for secrets Steve had no business knowing. Clint had left, and he’d been gone three months. Bucky received the occasional postcard (without message), a signal that Clint was alive if not well. Steve didn’t know where to begin to fix this.

The doctor told him the first step was forgiving himself. Steve had gotten better about that, but he was far from perfect. Even knowing the fiasco had been a product of his illness didn’t help. He recognized it, he knew it. With Clint out of the country, he couldn’t apologize. 

Bucky had reassured him that Clint held no grudge.

And then Steve remembered the postcard, the one Clint sent him at Christmas. He promised to work on letting go, on doing better.

He had some growing left to do.

 

*

 

Steve couldn’t remember ever feeling like he fit inside his skin. He’d been brittle most of his life, his ambition and determination too much for his weakened body to contain, even as an adult. After taking the serum, he’d been too preoccupied fighting a war to consider how he felt beyond how fucking amazing it was to take a full, deep breath. When he woke up, he’d found another war waiting to distract him from heartache, from the agony of mission half his soul. It was the quiet, uncomfortable moments between, when Steve had no one but himself, that made him notice the weird shift in his shoulders, the awkward sensation that he was too big now, like Alice changing size too rapidly to adjust.

He forgot, most of the time. Ignored it, kept himself preoccupied. But now he found his body different, not for how it didn’t fit, but how it suddenly, easily did. Like stepping out of the Vita-chamber free of pain, he’d realized how much he’d hurt only when the pain vanished. The absence made all the difference. What’s more, Steve noticed it in his reflection in the mirror. 

Sometime over the last six months, he’d lost the gauntness in his cheeks, the dark circles, the vacant look in his eyes. He smiled more easily, and when he did, the rest of him lit up along with it. He decided, for no other reason than he felt like it, to grow a beard. True, Steve nearly quit during the awkward, itchy stage, but the change did him good. He’d never had a beard before, and he liked it (and so did Bucky, which he may have made a point of demonstrating more than once). When Steve moved, his body felt lighter. The bad days still came, sometimes without warning, but Steve took them in stride. 

He ran, and he relished the change from bitter wind and frost to the thaw of spring and the heat of summer. Sam joined him, and even though he didn’t say a word, Steve knew his friend saw the changes, too. Steve laughed, passing him on the path for the second, third time, always buying Sam a coffee after they’d finished for the morning, after Sam caught his breath. They went out, the two of them, or Natasha stole him away for an afternoon, or occasionally, Steve went out by himself for a few hours, reclaiming the freedom his anxiety had kept from him.

Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so good. Well, there was the shower he’d taken that morning with Bucky, after his run, but—

He grinned to himself as he opened the office door and waited for his appointment. To his credit, he only blushed a little.

\--

Over the months, his doctor gave him different homework assignments: keep a journal, practice self-care, go one place you love, spend an hour out with friends, spend an hour out alone, go somewhere you’ve never been, try something new, vary your routine, and so on. But today’s assignment went hand in hand with last week’s, and Steve couldn’t be more excited. 

Buck had picked him up from therapy and they’d headed directly for the art supply. The moment Steve stepped through the doors, the scent of paper, charcoal, and paints embraced him, a fond, warm welcome home. He’d spent hours browsing, a new sketch pad tucked beneath his arm as he chewed his lip and debated charcoal versus a new drafting pencil versus oil paints.

Well, oil paints were out. They didn’t travel well and the drying time was ridiculous, plus they were a bitch to work with in public and uncontrolled settings. Steve hated acrylics. The markers, though . . .

And Bucky indulged him. If Steve even half-thought about trying it, Bucky tossed it into the basket. In the end, he bought the sketching pad, Yupo paper, watercolor markers, regular markers, the drafting pencil (they had one in light blue and he hadn’t put it down since he saw it), fixative, and an eraser. His face ached trying to contain his grin. It ached now as he made his way to the coffee shop. He had the whole afternoon to himself, and he’d been itching to draw. Maybe he opened the sketchpad and drafting pencil in the waiting room and knocked out a warm up sketch, a half-done portrait of his love smiling over their coffee this morning. He’d always been able to draw Buck’s face from memory, picture perfect every time. 

And considering his endless support, love, and encouragement, it seemed fitting that Bucky’s should be the first portrait Steve made. Even if he hadn’t really relearned to draw yet. Steve ached for the practice, hungered for the lines, the shading, the highlights, losing time to the pure act of creation.

He practically vibrated as he waited for his coffee, elated when he scored a table near the windows, out of the way, the sunshine at his back. He settled in, determined to finish the portrait he’d started and move on to some slice-of-life scenes. Steve definitely needed more than one coffee. As he touched the pencil to paper, he knew it’d be the best day ever.

About two coffees and three hours in, Steve’s concentration broke. His hand ached a bit, but in the way of muscles relearning their purpose. Stretching, Steve debated whether to call it quits and head home to Bucky (and dinner) when he heard the barista call a familiar name.

“Hawkguy?”

Steve blinked. Clint, tanned from what Steve guessed was an extended beach stay, stood at the counter, stuffing a couple bills into the tip jar as he collected his coffee. Steve would get the chance to set things right. Swallowing his nerves, Steve pushed up from his table, raising his hand. “Clint!”

Clint turned, surprise flickering over his face, and after a second’s hesitation, he started picking his way toward Steve. Steve grinned.

**Author's Note:**

> Not your traditional Christmas fic, I know. Christmas isn't always a happy time of year, and that's okay. You don't have to have the sparkliest bestest Christmas ever. If you want a quiet December 25th to refuel and spead the day doing self-care, do it. If you're just waiting for the dark days of winter to end and the sun come back again, you're not alone. If you're dreading spending the day with family you'd rather not see, you're not alone. 2017 was a fucking shit year, and 2018 may not look any better, but survival is something and you fucking did it, so take pride. Rest when you need it. Sing a Christmas carol or dance around your living room to Marilyn Manson. 
> 
> The sun's coming back. It's the way of things.
> 
> Whatever tomorrow brings, I hope it brings you happiness. You fucking deserve it, loves.


End file.
